


Fleshlight

by orphan_account



Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (2020)
Genre: 'It' Pronouns, Assault, Bloodplay, Bondage, Brainwashing, Cisgender Female Reader, Death, Degradation, Dehumanisation, Fearplay, Forced Nudity, Humiliation, Manipulation, Mind Break, Mind Control, Multi, Murder, Obedience, Oral Sex, Penetrative Sex, Reconditioning, Slapping, Surgery, Trauma, saliva, throat-fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25976668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In a demented demonstration of his own villainy and genius Dr. Robotnik has kidnapped you, and surgically altered you with a brand-new, terrifying invention of his own design. Before a crowd of delighted onlookers, you will come to understand the true power the doctor holds, and the new role he and his assistant have in mind for you.
Relationships: Agent Stone (Sonic the Hedgehog 2020)/Reader, Dr. Eggman | Dr. Robotnik/Agent Stone, Dr. Eggman | Dr. Robotnik/Agent Stone/Reader, Dr. Eggman | Dr. Robotnik/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35





	Fleshlight

**Author's Note:**

> a fun piece!! this is certainly new territory for me kink-wise but i absolutely had a blast writing it, so i hope you enjoy it too :3c

In a world of void and silence, there is no need to be afraid.  
  
Yet it’s with a violent tug that this momentary peace is shattered. You jolt awake as fabric is yanked away from over your head. For a moment, your legs skitter like a newborn deer, moving with an innate need to escape and run from what you know on a subconscious level will only hurt you. You breathe rapidly through your nose, not quite daring yet to open your eyes or mouth, because you know the second you do the pain will be back upon you, coursing through you, electrifying every one of your senses and leaving you for dead...  
  
But the moment does not come.  
  
Finally, you crack open one eye.  
  
It’s an effort, as your eyelid remains resolutely gummy - whether from sleep or tears, you do not know. But once your sight has adjusted enough, the image that greets you is not the familiar, clinical expanse of dark metal and harsh red-and-blue lights you’ve grown to expect. Instead, you are faced with a wall of lush, crimson velvet. You’re behind curtains, like that which you would expect in a theatre. Oddly, you are also treated to an acrid sweat-smell: the pressing, mortifying scent of too many bodies planning too much movement in too small an environment. This is such a foreign idea to you that your heart rate spikes.  
  
It has been months since you’ve seen anyone other than the doctor and his assistant.  
  
You blink away your bleariness and look around. Agent Stone stands to your right, casting a dutiful silhouette, his arms folded carefully in front of him in a gorgeous model of toadyism. Stone’s presence, while not a discomfort in and of itself - he has never given you any cause for alarm - means that his superior cannot be very far away.  
  
The very thought of Dr. Robotnik being anywhere near you sends your stomach plummeting.  
  
You open your mouth, and try to croak out a plea for assistance, but nothing more than a weak wheeze escapes your cracked lips. Fire clambers up your throat. You feel like you haven’t drank in days.  
  
Stone, to his credit, does glance over at you. A twitch in his lips betrays the solid exterior he’s likely been instructed to keep. There’s pity in his eyes.  
  
You try again.  
  
“ _Help_ .”  
  
The lights behind the curtains are baking, yet you can’t detect even the slightest sign of sweat on your body. With an ill-feeling flush crawling its way up your neck, you know without a doubt that Agent Stone is all that lies between you, and your old friend unconsciousness.  
  
Sickness washes over you in a wave, and spots fuzz your vision. Whatever the good doctor has in mind for you, you simply aren’t going to last. _Maybe it’s for the best_ , you think dimly. _At least when I’m dead, I’ll be at peace.  
  
_The thought gives you sincere relief.  
  
Until Stone reaches for your mouth, parts your lips with his fingers and slides something inside.  
  
The pill - because of course it is, what else could it be? - blossoms upon your tongue with sweet, sweet hydration, immediately disintegrating, pooling and pouring forth with so much water you barely have time to react and swallow.  
  
Stone withdraws his hand quickly, and you gasp in gratitude as the last of the much-needed liquid slides into your stomach. You’re finally able to speak, and you babble something incoherent, but Agent Stone silences you, pressing his finger against your chapped lips. He looks at you with bright, earnest eyes.  
  
“You mustn’t tell the doctor.”  
  
Stone’s lips scarcely move - it’s clear that he has perfected the art of speaking at a low enough volume which Robotnik would not detect. You wonder how many of Robotnik’s victims have been offered similar kindnesses by the doctor’s lackey. The thought fills you with a momentary softness. Stone must be going out on a limb here, to provide you with something Robotnik has deprived you of on purpose.  
  
The next thought strikes you with venom.  
  
_Stone’s allegiance is to Dr. Robotnik, first and foremost.  
  
_Whatever Robotnik has planned for you, it must be worth dying for.  
  
“It’s time.” Agent Stone’s voice trembles ever so slightly.  
  
It’s only now, with the taste of fresh water pumping an animal desire to move, that you try to make a break for it. But it’s no use: thick leather restraints keep your arms securely bound to the unyielding plastic of an egg-shaped chair. With surprise, you realise your feet aren’t actually touching the ground. You are suspended a good few feet from the floor, with your legs dangling precariously over the side. The chair isn’t connected to the ground in any way, but it hovers instead, propelled by some unseen force.  
  
More terrifying still, you are entirely naked.  
  
The shock hits you like a thunderclap. You hear yourself say, “Stone- Stone, please-”  
  
But Agent Stone is not listening to you. His attention is directed towards a gap in the curtains, one which you can’t quite see from your elevated vantage point. Yet it doesn’t matter - you don’t even have to look in the direction Stone is peering to know exactly who has drawn his attention.  
  
When Dr. Robotnik is around, nightmares become reality.  
  
You don’t have time to react before Stone grabs your chair and shoves you through the gap in the curtains. You bob a little ways before settling into a shadowy alcove, tucked on the far right of the grand stage. You blink against a sudden bright light pooling in front of you, and strain to make out the figure within.  
  
Of course, it could only be one person.  
  
Dr. Robotnik, the consummate histrionic personality, stands in centre-stage with his arms spread wide. He cuts an immaculate figure in his midnight-dark pseudo-suit, creating an image of dynamism even when he stands stock-still. His hair is styled, his moustache is waxed, and even from the other side of the stage you can see his lips curled in a derisive sneer.  
  
The doctor opens his own private circus of horror with a wide flourish, gesturing broadly to all ends of what appears to be a repurposed airport hangar. The men in the audience - for it does appear to only be men, a huge cluster of them, both suited and uniformed - do not move from their seats, but you see many of their eyes flit around with the erratic nerves of light-seeking moths.  
  
“The suppression of individuality!” Robotnik cries. His voice, comically low, reverberates in a way which sets your teeth on edge. Watching the enraptured crowd, you get the sense that you are not the only one who feels displeasure when confronted with Robotnik.  
  
“One would consider such a feat beyond the bounds of human capability, would they not?”  
  
There are a few murmurs of agreement from the crowd, ones you can’t help but suspect are more out of fear than a sincere acknowledgement of his feats. But this seems to gratify the good doctor, who, with a deliberation that ensures everyone in the audience can see just what he’s doing, presses a combination of buttons into his gloves.  
  
“Therein lies the rub, everyone!” Robotnik calls. “My genius is _beyond_ human.”  
  
Without warning, your hover chair begins to whir, a soft electrical hum almost like a mechanical cat purring. Fear leaps in your heart as your chair moves, approaching the expectant doctor.  
  
"Gentlemen; if you'll draw your attention to the subject."   
  
_No, no, no!  
  
_The spotlight falls on you in a dizzying flash. Your skin, unpleasantly bare, prickles under the heightened heat, and a hot flush scores along your neck and shoulders and cheeks as every eye in the makeshift stadium is drawn to your unclad form.  
  
A hush descends upon the muttering crowd. The only sound that penetrates are your short, sharp gasps, brought on by this positively nightmarish humiliation. There’s no way that this is actually happening to you.  
  
And yet when you look at Robotnik, whose grinning face is fixated firmly on his adoring audience, you can see that his very presence here means that not only is this horror happening: there is more to come.  
  
“I’d like for you to all see my latest invention, live here on stage - _the Emulsifier_ .”  
  
Robotnik rounds on you, and you can’t help but cower away from his towering form. To your surprise, Robotnik takes hold of your hair and lifts it up carefully, revealing the base of your skull.  
  
A small buzzing noise causes you to glance up. Above the heads of the audience members, a set of Robotnik’s previously unseen little egg-shaped drones - _what were they called? Badniks? -_ swarm together in an insectoid formation. With a _zip_ , a good twenty or so of the Badniks beat in the air, and beams of thin red light burst from their eyes. Together, all of these little beams converge into a single gigantic image, one which flexes like living tissue and manifests in real colour. To your utter horror, the live image of your skull flashes in high definition onto the makeshift screen.  
  
Right there, at least three inches long and disgustingly red, is a scar, pulling away from your neck and curving upwards towards the centre of your skull.  
  
“As you can see…” - Robotnik taps the scar with one gloved finger, a move which sends shivers sliding through your body - “...the Emulsifier is a miniscule device inserted at the site of the amygdala, the portion of the brain responsible for endocrine responses to environmental stimuli. The device works by suppressing typical hormonal responses to fear and displeasure, and instead triggers a flood of pleasurable hormones, such as oxytocin and serotonin.”  
  
You can feel Robotnik’s hot breath on your neck, coffee and sterile chemicals mingling into an abrasive, overpowering scent. He lets go of your hair, and all of the tension momentarily slumps out of your body; you feel like you’ve just run a marathon. You see a miniscule Badnik held in between his fingers. He must have been using the robot as a camera.  
  
“The Emulsifier’s effect is not activated by mere terror,” Robotnik continues, turning back to his audience. “If you’ll observe the subject closely, you’ll notice it is quite conscious despite its obvious agitation.”  
  
Robotnik smirks at you, and an icy bolt of fear combs through your innards. The pronoun choice is not lost upon you, even in your horrified, disoriented state - and it’s with a similar fear and disgust that you experience a needy throb pulsing between your exposed legs.  
  
Still, Robotnik presses on.  
  
“The colloquially defined ‘freeze’ response is often thought of as an unchangeable psychological defense mechanism, one which triggers physiological responses associated with high anxiety: rapid heart rate, the releasing of certain important hormones, et cetera. Particular personalities are beholden to its power as a response to traumatic events, such as domestic violence or sexual assault. The brain does not believe in its own capacity for self-defense, and thus, it _plays dead_ .”  
  
Throughout this whole diatribe, Robotnik stalks back and forth across the stage, pacing with a maniacal fervor. He pauses, only to point an accusatory finger at the crowd.  
  
“Did you get that? I know so many of you have yet to use a fork and spoon, let alone a table knife, but I do hope you grasp the essence of my invention!”  
  
Robotnik’s impetuous tone clearly ruffles the feathers of quite a few of his audience members, especially those who look to be highly decorated or powerfully-positioned. Yet no one dares to speak out against the doctor, and so he does not shut his mouth.  
  
“This subject, however, was picked not for its capacity to appear incapacitated. No, in this subject we discovered an antithetical reaction: the so-called ‘fight’ response. Catecholamines - adrenaline and noradrenaline - flood from the adrenal system, causing heightened stress in the creature, and a desire to attack and defend.”  
  
Robotnik circles around the back of your chair. You freeze as he lazily drapes his hands over your chest, and begins to fondle your breasts.  
  
“This subject possesses the expected genitalia and secondary sexual characteristics of the cisgender female, and thus maintains the standard biological reactions of such an object,” says Robotnik, sounding rather bored. “In a situation such as the one it finds itself in now, you would expect large amounts of catecholamines to be coursing through its body, preparing it to fight back.”  
  
Robotnik’s grip on your breasts becomes unexpectedly harsh. To your internal self-disgust, you don’t find yourself actively fighting his advances.  
  
In fact, you can feel yourself slickening at his touch.  
  
“But in this subject, my... _ministrations_ simply aren’t invasive enough.” Robotnik leans down over the chair and looks at you intently as he speaks. “It, prior to my involvement, has already been conditioned to enjoy a degree of degradation, humiliation, and pain.”  
  
Robotnik tweaks both of your nipples harshly on the word _pain_ . You squeak, and Robotnik chuckles lowly into your ear. Every single pair of eyes in the hangar are trained upon you, but no one dares make a sound. Heat pools in your cheeks.  
  
You might be the entertainment, but Robotnik is the ringmaster.  
  
“Vasopressin is a key hormone released during the arousal stage in cisgender males,” Robotnik continues relentlessly, releasing your nipples and letting his arms dangle loosely across your chest. “This causes a desire to copulate alongside a marked aggression, one which only dissipates upon orgasm. But in the cisgender female, vasopressin is part of the general stress response, and is coupled with a decreased propensity for arousal, alongside the aforementioned aggression.  
  
“ _This_ was all the stimulation my brilliant brain needed. I thought, why, oh why should we have to suffer thanks to nature’s limitations? I don’t know about you, but I like my toys with a little more…”  
  
Robotnik pauses for a moment on a drawn out, ‘hmm…’ His eyes alight on Stone, now situated on the other side of the stage and watching the display with great attentiveness. Stone returns Robotnik’s gaze with the expectant wide eyes of a newly adopted puppy.  
  
“ _Passivity_ .”  
  
Agent Stone has the good grace to let his gaze drop to the floor.  
  
You watch this exchange with bated breath, feeling like your very skin is going to slice itself apart under Robotnik’s laser-stare. The incision in the back of your head thrums, and though you don’t want to believe anything Robotnik is saying - don’t even want to listen to what you hope are outrageous lies - you know the madness that lies within this man all too well. There’s no question that he’s telling the truth.  
  
“So!”  
  
Robotnik clenches his fists. As one, all of his Badniks flock to the stage, hovering above him in a militaristic formation.  
  
“I have rewired this subject so that the release of vasopressin, adrenaline and noradrenaline are dampened by my device. Instead, when faced with pain, acute stress or a disobedient response, the subject is flooded with pleasure-producing hormones, effectively sending them into a stupefied, malleable trance.”  
  
Robotnik closes his eyes. He inhales deeply, an exaggerated gesture that goes on for far long to achieve anything meaningful - but more than long enough for it to unsettle every single person in the room.  
  
A beat.  
  
You can feel your spit clotting in your throat.  
  
Then Robotnik slaps you so hard across the cheek that your head rings. You cry out, but the sound is drowned by your own debauched groan. Some electrical impulse fires at the base of your skull, and a toe-curling, monstrous wave of pleasure flushes through your body, blooming with all the ferocity of a poisonous plant.  
  
Your vision blurs. Robotnik smacks you again, and another fresh spike of delight shudders through your being. The noises which escape your lips are post-erotic, sounds which you never knew that you could make, but you don’t care. All you know is that you desperately want him to hit you again, and again, and _again_ -  
  
Robotnik grins down at you, the carnal smile of a predator. You can only smile back stupidly.  
  
The doctor then turns back to his audience, and drops into a deep bow.   
  
"Gentlemen, I present to you: the ideal slave.”  
  
Silence.   
  
A long, chilling moment.  
  
Then, as one, every single person in the crowd jumps to their feet and starts clapping wildly, cheering and whooping and shouting Robotnik’s name.  
  
The noise crashes through your thoughts and disperses them like wind through mist. You shake in your seat, your heart racing. All of the sounds entrap you, beating your mind into a pulp. _What is happening?_ Your eyes drag across all of the men in the crowd, leaping up and down, yelling for you, staring at you, absorbing the image of your helpless, naked body- _  
_ _  
_ _“_ You _mouthbreathers!”  
  
_ The circus screeches to a dead stop.  
  
Robotnik struts to the front of the stage. His face is twisted in a caricature of lividity, a cartoonish look which could only be terrifying on a man with his capabilities.  
  
“I gave you one instruction!” Robotnik roars. “One! A single, teensy, itty-bitty little command to follow, and you can’t even do that! I said-”  
  
Robotnik punches a sequence into the keypads on his gloves.  
  
“-no-”  
  
Robotnik snarls, and clasps his hands together.  
  
“- _CLAPPING!_ ”  
  
With an unhinged yell, Robotnik sweeps his hand over the whole first row of his audience. Screams and shouts erupt from the crowd as the Badniks’ lasers tear through skin and muscle and bone, vaporising every single man in the front row and reducing their bodies to ash and dust in seconds.  
  
A deadly silence blankets the room. All of the men who were standing before abruptly take their seats, sitting down as one amidst a chorus of squealing chair legs. Your chest heaves as you watch Robotnik smooth his rage-tousled hair. Agent Stone surveys the scene as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.  
  
As if his boss didn’t just kill at least twenty men in cold blood.  
  
“Leave it to evolution to weed out every single one of you mutton-headed simpletons,” Robotnik says, all snide. “I was gracious enough to bring you a subject still in the process of conditioning, and I specifically instructed you not to make any sudden, loud noises which might incite an alternative stress response.”  
  
Robotnik sighs heavily, and tuts at the crowd like a disappointed father reprimanding his children.  
  
“Now I have to start the process again.”  
  
You couldn’t defend yourself even if you wanted to, Robotnik is just too quick. The doctor turns around sharply and seizes you by the chin. You gasp as his gloved fingers crush your cheeks together, hard enough to bruise. His gaze bores into you, his eyes orbitoclasts carving up the fresh meat of your brain, and though the adrenaline surges and you try despairingly to escape your restraints, the Emulsifier heeds your call and whirs into action.  
  
A fresh batch of delectable hormones throb through your nervous system, pulsating under your skin and sending every synapse snapping away with pleasure. All of your panic, fear and resistance drains away like so much dishwater: dirty thoughts with which you no longer need to be concerned. Your bones feel cleansed, your muscles soothed. Your whole body falters, and you become totally lax.  
  
"Open your mouth."  
  
Without hesitation, your jaw drops open in an automated slackening befitting a pre-programmed toy. A heady pool of saliva collects in the well beneath your tongue, while said appendage lolls from your mouth with no discernible grace. As a string of fluid overspills the bounds of your lips and trickles along your jawline, an insistent pulse of pleasure makes itself known within your brain, needy and delightful.  
  
“The subject has undergone a period of reconditioning, to adjust to its device,” Robotnik says, as he rests one palm flat atop your skull. His fingers curl at your temple, his grip painfully tight.  
  
“While it undoubtedly possesses broken memories of this period, the longer the Emulsifier takes up real estate in the subject’s brain, the more such memories will fade away. The device is designed not to merely mask the biological impulses which give such a creature free will, but to irrevocably damage and rewire its psyche.”  
  
Someone in the audience - a beefy, elder gentleman, weighed down by medals - raises his hand. Robotnik pops his tongue in something approaching amusement. He nods to the soldier.  
  
“Yes, my rotund fellow?”  
  
The soldier looks affronted, but replies anyway. “Why’s it called an Emulsifier?”  
  
A sickening curl of the lip leaves Robotnik smirking at the soldier.  
  
“A little joke of mine. An emulsion is a liquid dispersion within another liquid with which it will not homogenise. It sits inside the other liquid, entirely itself…”  
  
Robotnik looks back over his shoulder at you, and offers you a wink.  
  
“...and yet not itself at all.”  
  
The doctor’s smile threatens to split his face in two.  
  
“You see, to become itself, emulsion is often _beaten_ .”  
  
The whole time this exchange occurs, your mouth is still hanging open, with saliva dribbling down your chin and splashing onto your exposed thighs. Your brain floats in a magnificent bliss, like a petal drifting upon water, and Robotnik’s words drum a peaceful beat upon the inside of your skull. If there was a time before this, you don’t remember it - and you don’t want to. Perhaps your system has been reprogrammed, and perhaps terrible things were done to get you here, but what did that matter now? If you could feel like this every day for the rest of your life, you’d sign away your will to Robotnik through any verbal contract.  
  
But of course, you wouldn’t speak without his permission.  
  
“...as a deliberate design choice, I have made it so that you would-be masters can choose how you’d like to…” Robotnik titters. “... _break in_ your new toy. Whether you would like to do the honours yourself - as I intend to do with this subject - or if you’d like it to come pre-packaged, so to speak.”  
  
Another man in the audience - this one younger than the last, and sporting some untamed ginger stubble - raises his hand. Unlike the previous speaker, his rank is marked not by medals, but the quality of his uniform. Robotnik looks at him in exasperation.  
  
“Speak with intellect, commander, and I might answer your question.”  
  
The jaw of the commander tightens, but, like his colleagues, he bites his tongue and bears the insult.  
  
“How come the chip makes it obey? If it thinks pain is good, wouldn’t it just try to get me to hit it? I want a slave, not a brat.”   
  
Robotnik purses his lips. The doctor wears his emotions so plainly, and it is obvious to everyone - even you, with your brain so deliciously addled - that he is holding himself back from some unconscionable act of violence. _How exhausting it must be for him_ , you think through the dreamy fog. _To be surrounded by so many people who are far too stupid for him, far too unworthy…_  
  
A tiny voice in the back of your mind asks a question you don’t want to acknowledge.  
  
_Didn’t you despise Robotnik ten minutes ago?_ _  
_ _  
_ “My good man,” says Robotnik, in a measured tone which implies he thinks the commander is a fool, “If you are so determined to question my abilities, I cordially invite you to come up here and put the subject to good use.”  
  
Time passes by agonisingly slow. You watch as if from the other side of a waterfall as the commander is brought up on stage, and then to you. Your jaw still hangs open, drool trickling from your mouth, but you don’t mind. The ache feels marvellous.  
  
It’s with a queasy sort of delight that you watch the commander pull his cock out of his pants and bring the tip to your lips. The commander tilts your chin up a little, so you’ll have better purchase. This is all the encouragement you need to engulf the head of the commander’s cock between your lips.  
  
Robotnik watches the display with faint interest. Once the commander is securely situated within your mouth, the doctor’s voice drops to a low, sensual octave, issuing only a single instruction. His tone sends gooseflesh rippling along your arms.  
  
“Trigger its gag reflex.”  
  
The commander follows the order on cue, thrusting his hips forward and choking you with his cock. Tears stream from your eyes and spit bubbles at the corners of your mouth from the force of this sudden intrusion, and some distant part of you wonders which of you is the machine. The commander holds you there, his thick dick hitting the back of your throat, and you gag around it, feeling your stomach coil and heave as it tries to regain purchase on the invasion of your mouth.  
  
“Aw- _fuck_ -!”   
  
In less than a minute, it’s over. The commander heaves against your tongue and spills with a shout. You splutter, but manage to hold your own, swallowing down spurt after spurt of bitter cum until your throat feels coated with the stuff. You gulp in air greedily as the commander pulls out of your mouth with a grunt, but a silvery thread of fluid still connects you from lip-to-tip. It’s only when Robotnik cards his fingers through your hair and pulls your head back that the cum-thread snaps, severing you from the man who defiled your defenseless body like you were a throwaway toy.  
  
“Bravo, Commander,” says Robotnik, voice drenched in hostility. “I do believe that was some kind of achievement…” He holds his hand up to his cheek and apes a stage-whisper. “ _I can call it that if it’d make you feel better_ .”  
  
The commander scowls at Robotnik, but doesn’t retaliate. He also doesn’t bother to look you in the eye as he tucks his spent dick back into his pants.  
  
“I gotta say,” says the commander, out of breath. “It felt amazing. So warm and wet. Gotta hand it to you Doc, you know how to break ‘em in.”  
  
Robotnik opens his mouth, likely to reply with something scathing. But he stops before a full word can escape, a malfunctioning computer unsure of the correct output. After what looks to be an intense internal monologue from the myriad of expressions that flit across his face, Robotnik musters up a question for the post-orgasmic commander.  
  
“Did you say...really _wet_ ?”  
  
The commander nods slowly. He backs away from Robotnik at a similar pace, and makes his way off stage with as little fanfare as possible.  
  
Through the omnipresent haze of pleasure a thought slides into your consciousness, something nagging and important. Although your body and brain are awash in a sea of delight, you can’t help but feel there’s something about what the commander said that should be setting off alarm bells. Something tremendously important...  
  
Robotnik’s mouth contorts downwards, his moustache bending in a humorous manner. You exchange a look, and find the doctor’s jaw to be set in a diamond-hard manner.  
  
The thought cracks open your bliss like lightning through a tree trunk.  
  
Robotnik’s laser focus sets Agent Stone in its sights.  
  
_Oh, no.  
  
_Thunder flashes across Robotnik’s face, his eyes now monstrously dark.  
  
_The hydration pill.  
  
_“Agent Stone,” chirps Robotnik, in a sing-songy, wholly terrifying way. “Come here.”   
  
The mask of pleasure Robotnik engineered to cover up your true horror slips. Though your mouth is gaping still, you try to focus on Stone. In the time you’d spent with the agent, you’d gotten very good at noticing the small tells that indicate his true emotions, lying beneath the veneer of servitude. Right now, terror radiates off the man - he looks to be wilting under the doctor’s gaze.  
  
You think that if you can see these little indications of fear, to Robotnik they must be blood in the water.  
  
Nevertheless, Agent Stone pads over to Robotnik,always the obedient servant. Pronounced as ever is the height difference between the two, with Robotnik leering over Stone like a mangle-toothed fox over a fresh-faced rabbit. Even through the stupor marring your brain, you know that beneath Stone’s pressed suit must exist a litany of scars. Perhaps they’re physical, or perhaps they’re emotional. Either way, you know one thing to be true.  
  
Stone is as much a subject to Robotnik as you are.  
  
“You’re going to be part of this next demonstration!”  
  
Robotnik declares the statement so cheerfully, you’d be forgiven for thinking he’d just given Stone a promotion. Indeed, Agent Stone looks pleased: he is very much a lap-dog with practice.  
  
“Of course, Doctor. What would you like me to d-”  
  
Robotnik seizes Agent Stone by the lapels and cracks their foreheads together. A gasp goes up from the crowd who’ve been watching all this time like spectators for a sport, and you see at least a dozen of them reach for hidden (forbidden) weapons.  
  
“Why Stone,” says Robotnik through tightly clenched teeth. “You are going to copulate with the subject.”  
  
Agent Stone’s composure does not break upon Robotnik’s manhandling, nor does it crumble beneath his ludicrous statement. You can see a deep calculation going on behind those friendly eyes, a weighing-up of options for the best bet that will lead to the least amount of chaos.  
  
“But-”  
  
The slap takes everyone off guard, even cutting through your artificial bliss. Seemingly determined not to let Agent Stone ever finish a sentence agan, Robotnik hits his assistant so swiftly and with such furor that he busts Stone’s lip. A rivulet of blood pools on the agent’s mouth and dribbles down his chin.  
  
“You don’t seem to be hearing me quite correctly, Agent Stone.”  
  
Robotnik releases the agent and takes a step back, adjusting his own jacket as he does so.  
  
“You are going to _fuck_ the subject...and you are going to go in _dry_.”   
  
Even though your chair’s restraints still keep your thighs spread well apart, you can hear as well as feel the wet slick of your own cunt with every involuntary muscle movement. Robotnik’s words, dipped as they are in darkness, cause impossible sensations to bloom within your body, desires which crave unholy degradation until your broken mind gives way under their monstrosity.  
  
Agent Stone swallows hard before reaching down to undo his zipper. He hesitates, but takes his cock out of his pants all the same. Stone isn’t terribly big - certainly nothing compared to the man who filled up one of your holes just moments before - but he’s wide enough that the prospect of him inside you keeps your shoulders loose, your muscles lax and your jaw hanging, languid and saliva-filled.  
  
Before Stone aligns himself with your cunt, however, he risks yet another look back at Robotnik. The agent’s features are uncomfortably twisted, an internal dilemma playing out on the medium of his skin.  
  
It’s with a wheedling voice that Stone asks the question:  
  
“Please may I use its mouth?”  
  
Agent Stone’s eyes are downcast, ashamed. A few of the audience members grumble amongst themselves, restless at the delay. You share their sentiment; drool slides insistently from your lips and splashes onto your chair as you wait for Agent Stone to follow his orders and impale you on his cock. If there were a rational part of your brain remaining, it might tell you that this whole situation is ghastly.  
  
That poor Agent Stone shouldn’t be forced into such an act.  
  
That he has offered you yet another kindness by requesting additional lubrication.  
  
Unluckily for you, the rational part of your brain is drowning in oxytocin.  
  
Robotnik laughs a most loathsome guffaw as he considers Stone’s pathetic request.  
  
“Sure. Go right ahead and get your sloppy seconds, Stone. I wouldn’t expect anything better of you.”   
  
That’s all the motivation Agent Stone needs. Stone rests one hand on your shoulder and, in total contrast to the movements of the commander, gently feeds his dick into your mouth. In moments that glorious wave of empty rapture bubbles from within, and you swallow back Stone’s cock as eagerly as he allows you to. The agent is reticent, almost shy, despite the mass of eyes upon him, but there’s nothing about this situation that could make you feel shy. Not when you take the initiative needed and bob your head up and down the length of Stone’s dick, slickening him like any good fucktoy should do.  
  
Your work does not go unrewarded. Stone whimpers, high and keen, a sound you find intoxicating in your euphoric state. The agent’s fingers shift to rest lightly in the dips of your collarbone, and he seems to be trying so hard not to hurt you as he grinds into your mouth. He’s almost polite, and it simply isn’t enough to appease your endorphin-doused, newly-addicted mind.  
  
You peer up into Stone’s dark, expressive eyes, and try to communicate without words that you need more, more, _more._  
  
But Robotnik, always needing to be the centre of attention, isn’t having any of it.  
  
“That’s quite enough, Stone.”  
  
Much to your dismay, Agent Stone pulls out, letting your impossible amount of saliva (that hydration pill must be working wonders) spatter onto the ground. He looks quite a sight, that usually beatific face now flushed and sweaty.  
  
Stone straightens his suit jacket and waits for further instruction. Robotnik examines Stone, his expression inscrutable.  
  
Finally, he barks, “Get on with it!”   
  
Spurred on by the doctor, Agent Stone grips your thighs and lines himself up to your cunt. With a deep inhale, Stone pushes himself inside of you, torturously slow, and yet painful enough to cause spectacular, void-like warmth to flow into your mind once again. Your eyelids flutter as Stone fills you up, the tears on your eyelashes sending rainbows cascading over him, Robotnik and the captivated audience. The feeble lubrication from your mouth does little to soothe the burn and tear as Stone presses his considerable girth into you, but there is no reason for you to care. You are thoughtless, mindless, performing the purpose for which you were made.  
  
You never want to experience anything but this feeling ever again.  
  
Stone shuts his eyes tight as he grinds into you, a slow roll that sets your legs alight with pins and needles. You feel warm all over, dizzyingly so, like each pound the agent gives imbues you with starlike heat. Your skull vibrates with the hot pulse of the Emulsifier, planting the seeds of the most simple, desirable command deep within the whorls of your brain:  
  
_Obey.  
  
__Obey, and you are good._ _  
_ _  
_ _You want to be good.  
  
__Be good.  
  
__And.  
  
_**_Obey._   
  
**Even through this molten spread of fiery arousal singeing the very fabric of your will, there’s a tear: a hole in your expectations. You stare unseeingly at Stone, who wears a mask so unlike yours - not one of pleasure, or delight. In that moment you are unable to comprehend what that feeling is, but you know it to be familiar...it’s the feeling that makes your insides seize, your emotions riot...  
  
It’s a look of dismay.  
  
Of regret.  
  
You think, _he’s got a bad case of stage fright._ _  
_ _  
_ “Doctor,” Agent Stone whispers. It’s the voice of a broken man. “I don’t think I can-”  
  
“ _Quiet._ ” There’s an ungodly malice to Robotnik’s quick command, an underlying bite in the beartrap of his words. The doctor’s eyes shine bright, piercingly attentive, ready to catch any kind of disobedience.  
  
So Agent Stone quiets himself, and punches a powerful thrust into you, making you moan so loud that the sound echoes to the far walls of the hangar. A few of the audience members risk a small cheer, but they are far quieter than during Robotnik’s revelation of his genius. Instead a couple of scattered yells of encouragement punctuate the gentle rhythm Stone establishes with his hips, causing a soft yet obscene slapping of flesh on flesh.  
  
But all too soon Stone is slowing, his pumps lacking enthusiasm and his grip slackening on your skin. This doesn’t escape Robotnik’s notice. Nothing does.   
  
“If you insist on displeasing me, I shall have to question your competence for this position.”  
  
Like a cat, Robotnik pounces, pressing himself up against Stone’s back and lounging over him with ease. His hands settle at his assistant’s hips, and he brings his mouth down to the shell of Stone’s ear, to whisper in a voice tantalising and salacious.  
  
“Do you need my _help_ , Stone?”  
  
Robotnik doesn’t allow Stone time to reply. The doctor reaches over his assistant and drags his gloved fingers down your mound, then slides them between your soaked folds. You cry out in delight, shivering violently as the soft, unyielding material is coated with your own fluids. With a practised ease, Robotnik finds your clit and thumbs it, setting into pace a rough yet pleasurable pattern. At the same time, Robotnik pushes insistently into the small of Stone’s back, effectively shoving the agent further inside of you. As he does, Robotnik narrates to the crowd:  
  
“Nothing to worry about, gentlemen!” Robotnik calls. “My assistant here is merely proving himself as burdensome as he looks.”  
  
The sheer insanity of the situation sends your body into overdrive. Here is Agent Stone, from whom a sharp whine is elicited by the doctor’s pointed jibe, bunched up inside of you and beginning to grind desperately back against Robotnik as he slams into your hole. And here is Dr. Robotnik, his fingers working magic on your clit, puppeteering Agent Stone like the only way he’ll allow him to fuck is under his strict, _hands-on_ supervision.  
  
And here you are too. Beholden to a device now fused to your brain, sewn up inside you like a crude toymaker’s joke.  
  
_Ready to obey._  
  
“You see, everyone,” says Robotnik loudly, rubbing you hard and deep while keeping Stone sandwiched between you both, “There is a key difference between my agent and the subject he’s fucking. Does anyone want to guess what that difference is?”  
  
The spectators, perhaps having acclimatised to their dead colleagues in the front row, are emboldened to risk a few random shouts. You’re past the point of coherency now; sweat slicks your naked back and you slide down in the chair, internally begging for more friction but outwardly letting Robotnik and Stone turn you into a living fuckdoll.  
  
Robotnik listens to all of the crowd’s suggestions, but shoots them down with a brutal laugh. “All wrong!” he declares, and he leans in closer to Stone, so close that you can see his moustache tickling the agent’s cheek.  
  
“The difference between it and you, Stone,” Robotnik hisses, his breath catching like so many loose threads, “is that you will obey without question. There’s no surgery needed for you.”  
  
Stone’s breath hitches, and his fingers tighten into your clavicle. Even though Stone is trying to keep his eyes focused on you, the more Robotnik says, the more his eyes fog over in a haze of broken lust.  
  
“You think that you can just go behind my back, do you, Stone? Give the subject a present while I’m not looking?”  
  
Robotnik doesn’t even bother lowering his voice. As his taunts become louder, his fingers move with increasing rapidity, jerking your clit in a way that sends sparks of flame shooting through your whole nervous system.  
  
“Well, I hate to tell you this, but I am not concerned by your betrayal. You are nothing more than a brainless _hole_ ,” Robotnik breathes, the words dripping from his tongue as so much poison.  
  
You moan as Agent Stone’s fingers clench into your bones, squeezing the coating flesh hard enough to bruise. He’s pumping you faster with each toxic word that drops from Robotnik’s lips, and their content drenches the flat landscape of your mind with life-giving water, causing sparks and sensations and desires to sprout and flower and die.  
  
“Though maybe you would be better off like the subject,” Robotnik scoffs, driving his fingers around your clit hard enough to hurt and good enough to make you scream. “I should have tested the Emulsifier out on you, given your delight in disobedience.”  
  
“Doctor, please,” Agent Stone sobs, even as he continues to gyrate against you, inside of you, to become one with you and your blank, vulnerable thoughts.  
  
“I think that’s what I’ll do after this demonstration,” Robotnik says, not letting up his pace for even a moment. “Take you back to the lab and reprogram you. Slice you open and stitch you back up with a new, better brain, and have you sit around dumb for the rest of your days with this subject as your only company.”  
  
Stone cries out. His hips stutter against you, and you grind desperately back between him and Robotnik, needing more attention, needing the emptiness, needing, needing, _needing_ .  
  
“You repugnant, insignificant waste of a cerebellum. Putrid, servile, inferior being. Half-witted, unworthy fool.”  
  
The stream of insults forms into an endless torrent of humiliation, degradation and hatred. You moan at a pitch you didn’t know you could reach, and teeter on the edge of a physical abyss. Stone’s eyes roll back and flutter.  
  
“You disgusting, useless, empty-headed _fleshlight_ .”  
  
The orgasm hits you like a shockwave. You scream and convulse, tearing at your bonds as your insides clench around Agent Stone’s cock. Stone groans, helpless and long, as he cums deep inside of you, filling your insides with blissful hot emptiness that sears up your brain and fries every sense you have. You crest once, twice, three, four, _five_ times before your mind plummets from atop the highest height you have ever reached - and your body follows suit with a deluge of wetness soaking your thighs.   
  
Your vision shorts out, and the world drops from beneath you.  
  
You pass out.  
  


* * *

  
You don’t know how much time has passed when you finally regain consciousness. Agent Stone has pulled out of your needy, shudder-wracked body, and you whimper at the loss, feeling like nothing more than a wide, gaping hole.  
  
“A satisfactory job, Agent Stone,” Robotnik says. “The subject should be waking up now.”  
  
You peer through bleary, unfocused eyes around the hangar. It is entirely devoid of any other soul except for the doctor and Agent Stone. You look to Robotnik, and your confusion only grows. Somehow, he appears completely undisturbed by the events that just transpired. There’s not a hair out of place, not even on his moustache.  
  
“Thank you, Doctor,” says Stone, smiling widely. “What should we do with it?”  
  
Robotnik strolls over to your chair, and leans over you. His eyes rake in your appearance, still naked and wet and vulnerable. He nods at you, having made a decision.  
  
“Prepare for transportation, Stone.”  
  
Robotnik bears his teeth in a wide, inhuman grin.  
  
“I have a new project I’d like to test out.” 


End file.
